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Through the cold swirling gale he descended upon the plateau, spiralling as though without control until the last moment when his enormous wingspan was spread wide to end the plunge. His weight snagged barely clear of the ground, and between mighty beats he hovered precariously still quite at the mercy of that wickedly bitter element. Glazed and watering; burnt by the barrage of wind, bright tangerine eyes examined the surrounding field until certain that no other lingered close by. Carefully he dropped, powerful legs collecting skilfully beneath the swing of his lowering body, and large round hooves sank beneath the blanket of soft, clean snow.
When the W.A.R’s army had been told to disband, Hector had sailed swiftly into the south to skirt his former home where always his loyalties would lie. He had found the Throat to be a changed land; all terrain warped and rugged by the hand of he knew not what, and without the aid of his kin (no other had been found nearby) the soldier had fled back towards the heart. Apart from the long lost Vesta, he had found no trace of those who had once inhabited the desert beside him. Uncertainty plagued his mind and confusion clouded the clarity of his clever gaze.
So the tawny beast had travelled north, towards Heavenly Fields where many were known gathered in prayer and worship upon the soils closest to their Gods. Surely, after salvation had been offered to their mortal existence and all darkness dissolved, someone would have ventured this far to repay with gratitude.
Veci curled and played recklessly through the driving wind; he was untouched by its chill, unbothered by its fury, and the mischievous Boggart teased his bonded relentlessly as whipping tendrils of chestnut mane savaged the narrowed pinch of his eyes. He wafted with ease around the area to scout for company, spilling across the surface of the untouched snow and dancing through the sheer, blissful isolation embracing them. Hector was none too pleased. A wearied sigh was purged from bursting lungs as frustration began to simmer through his core, and the stallion strode from the cliff’s edge, leaving in his wake a sullied trail of slush.
@[Elsa]: Atop the flat tableland of Heavenly fields, it is mid-morning beneath the shade of dense cloud cover. A biting cold wind is blowing towards the south, and one or two inches of snow coats the grass.
Thought we would begin with an official meeting :)
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